


Regrets

by hastings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dysfunctional Family, Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Suicide, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:48:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hastings/pseuds/hastings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This will probably be updated about once a week, depending on how busy I am in real life. It's about three quarters written though, so you don't have to worry about it being abandoned.<br/>Please ignore the preface, I am just the worst person at coming up with titles/summaries.<br/>Thanks for reading :)</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 John sipped at his too hot cup of tea, wincing as it burned his tongue slightly. He finally had the chance to catch up on the news, he and Sherlock having completed a two week long case the night before. They'd gotten in at some ungodly hour, laughing like mad, still high from the adrenaline and triumph of having solved the case. He'd begged off his shift at the surgery this morning, fully intending to spend the day relaxing and typing up the case on his blog. He'd only just spread the newspaper out in front of him when his phone began vibrating on the table next to him. He glanced over at it and groaned internally, seeing Harry's name.

 

She'd already called him twice in the past week, crying over her alcohol problems and subsequent relationship troubles. He'd done his best to try and comfort her, but she'd been completely pissed both times, dropping the phone on several occasions, her words slurring and trailing off. John had been able to make out something about she and Clara getting back together the second time she'd called, which had encouraged him, but really, with Harry in that state, she could have been saying anything to keep him on the line.

 

He glared down at his ringing phone, before switching it to silent and leaving it turned face down on the table. Clara could deal with her this time, John thought. He was fed up trying to help her when she clearly doesn't listen to a word he said. He leant forward and started reading the front page. Nope, not today, not my problem, he thought idly, taking another sip of his tea.

 

*

 

He picked his phone up a few hours later: three missed calls from Harry and a voicemail. He frowned down at his phone, beginning to feel rather guilty for ignoring his sister like this. Maybe he should just give her a text -

 

“John!” A breathless Sherlock burst into the flat, his coat flapping around his legs and his cheeks flushed from the cold air outside. His hair was curling messily about his face, and John's eyes wandered slowly upwards, trying not to blush as he thought about how much he wanted to run his hands through that hair. There had been a … well, John supposed you'd call it a _moment_ , the night before, where they'd been leaning on each other's shoulders, giggling about some ridiculous aspect of the case, when Sherlock had suddenly stopped laughing and slowly leant closer to John's face, a purposeful gleam in his eye. John remembered how his breath had caught in his throat, and how he'd tipped his head back slightly, trying not to break eye contact, as each of their hands gripped the other's shoulder tighter, when Sherlock had suddenly straightened up and retreated to his bedroom with a swift “Goodnight”, leaving behind one very confused flatmate.

 

John's attention snapped back to Sherlock face when he clapped his hands like an excited child and said, “John, we need to get to Bart's right away!”

 

“Another case?” John frowned, “That was quick.”

 

“No, it's not a case, don't be stupid, Molly called!” Sherlock grinned, grabbing John's arms and forcing him towards the staircase. John favoured trying not to trip over his own feet as Sherlock pushed him down the steps over trying to question why Molly calling required him being manhandled down the stairs.

 

“She's got a twenty four year old male, freshly deceased, suffered from alopecia, killed by a nut allergy. It's _perfect_ for experimentation,” Sherlock said excitedly, trying to stuff John's arms into his coat.

 

“That's wonderful, Sherlock, truly, I hope the two of you will be very happy together,” John grumbled as he tried to yank his arms away from Sherlock's grasp, “but I don't see why that means I have to come.”

 

“Obviously John, I'll need help carrying it,” Sherlock explained simply, opening the front door and waving his arms to usher John out.

 

“Carrying it? What – you mean she's giving you _the whole thing?_ ”

 

“Yes, John, of course the whole thing.” Sherlock tutted, throwing out his arm for a taxi. “Really, do you think I'd be this excited about just a limb?” A taxi rolled to a stop in front of him, and Sherlock practically leapt into it, leaning back out to smile at John. “Come on, John, it won't be fresh if we don't get there soon.”

 

John bit back a grin, trying not to think how alarming it was that he didn't mind being asked to transport a corpse back to their flat. Sherlock really was infectiously happy when he was in this good a mood, thought John as he closed the door to 221b behind him, all thoughts of his sister forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably be updated about once a week, depending on how busy I am in real life. It's about three quarters written though, so you don't have to worry about it being abandoned.  
> Please ignore the preface, I am just the worst person at coming up with titles/summaries.  
> Thanks for reading :)


	2. Chapter 2

 John yawned and rubbed at his face as he shuffled into the kitchen the next morning.

 

“Morning.” He glanced towards the figure hunched over the end of the kitchen table. “Tea?”

 

Sherlock hummed a reply, glaring down at his microscope as if it had personally wronged him. He had barely said two words since their return from Bart's yesterday. Surprisingly enough, it turned out that there were rather stringent policies on the removal of whole corpses from the mortuary of St. Bart's. Who'd have thought, John smiled to himself, remembering the fury on Sherlock's face as Molly insisted that someone was sure to notice an entire body being wheeled out the lab and into a taxi by two civilians. Apparently Molly had overstepped her authority in promising Sherlock an entire corpse, and was now backtracking on her decision in light of possibly losing her job should they be caught. In the end, Molly had allowed him an hour to experiment on the body in the lab, and given him two outer extremities to take home with him.

 

John's hand darted past a foot on the bottom shelf to grab the milk. It was strange what you got used to, living with Sherlock. John's policy from had relaxed from 'not in the kitchen' to 'not in the fridge' till it was now resting at 'as long as it's not actually in my food, it's okay'. A case of bodily appendages in the vegetable tray was pretty much par for the course these days, and it's not as if they ever had anything healthy in there to begin with. Besides, there were far bigger things he had to worry about these days. Such as why his gun kept mysteriously relocating to various positions around the flat, or why Sherlock insisted on keeping the poison samples next to the sugar bowl. Or whether or not Sherlock had meant to kiss him the other night, his stomach jolting nervously at the thought. John's eyes fell onto Sherlock's lips, as he stood against the kitchen counter, waiting for the water to boil. His eyes drifted up and over the rest of Sherlock's face, and he noticed the direction of Sherlock's stare. His gaze was hazy and softly focused on their slightly ajar bathroom door. John turned his head and squinted in the same direction, but didn't see anything that would immediately capture the attention of someone like Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock?” John asked, “You okay?” His gaze flickered over the rest of Sherlock's body; he was still in his clothes from the night before. John didn't doubt for a moment that he'd been in that position all night. He wondered for a second if Sherlock had fallen asleep with his eyes open.

 

“I was going to put it in there,” Sherlock sighed, still gazing dreamily into the bathroom.

 

“It? There?” John queried, not sure if he really wanted to know the answer.

 

“The corpse, John, the corpse.” Sherlock sighed again. “I would have put it in the bathtub. Wouldn't have fit in the fridge, obviously.” At John's horrified grimace at the thought of a dead body in his shower Sherlock added, “After filling it with ice first of course.”

 

“Oh, but of course,” John said with a shudder. “Silly of me not to realise.”

 

“It would have lasted for days as well,” Sherlock said grumpily, “Molly really should have checked before promising it to me.”

 

“Yes, what a shame.” John said drily. “It would have gone so well with the décor.”

 

Sherlock merely sighed a third time, and continued to stare wistfully at the bathroom door. John rolled his eyes and dumped two teabags into separate mugs.

 

“Ah, well,” he said. “Maybe it's just as well. Molly would have gotten into loads of trouble, I bet. Poor girl, she was probably desperate to impress you. You could be a lot nicer to her, you know, Sherlock.” John moved to pour the boiling water into two mugs. He turned, to see his flatmate still staring in the opposite direction, not listening to a word he said. “Sherlock,” he said more sharply.

 

“Hmmm?” Sherlock turned his head towards John, but his eyes were sill fixed on the horizon, no doubt dreaming up hundreds of horrible ways he could have dismembered and dissected an entire human body.

 

“Never mind,” John sighed, placing a cup of tea beside Sherlock's microscope. Sherlock picked it up without a word of thanks and clasped it in one hand as John sat down beside him. He started drumming the fingers of his other hand on the table, and John barely suppressed a groan. Brilliant, barely two days off a case and he's bored again, he thought.

 

John settled down to read the morning's paper, before realising halfway through the front page that it was the one he'd read yesterday. “Don't suppose Mrs. Hudson's been up with today's, has she?” he called over to Sherlock, who'd moved to stand over by their living room window.

 

“No,” Sherlock replied, staring out at the street, “but that doesn't matter now. Lestrade's here.”

 

“What, again? Jesus, it's all go around here.” John stood and began clearing old plates and mugs off the kitchen table. He saw his phone lying where he'd left it the day before, a twinge of guilt making itself known in his stomach. He'd phone her tomorrow, he promised himself. He glanced back up at Sherlock “Makes no difference to me in any case, I've got work in an hour. I can't skive off two days in a row, Sarah'll have my skin. You'll have to go yourself, Sherlock. Sherlock?” he sighed, “Are you even listening to me, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock was standing frozen at the window, eyes fixed presumably on Lestrade or whoever was standing at the doorstep of 221b Baker Street. A slight shiver slid up John's spine as he watched Sherlock, whatever happened next, he doubted it would be good news.  

**Author's Note:**

> As always, concrit and feedback is always welcome :)


End file.
